When the air clears (a poem)

When the air clears (a poem)

I have to be myself now, don’t I? The prefab model has outlived its usefulness; modified and jury-rigged over the years, it wasn’t meant for long-term use. At four in the morning, it’s all about the exit fee they want me to pay but can’t prove they can collect— yet I still can’t find a way out. A pair of gorilla arms reaches through the walls and grabs me as I try to select the destination for my ticket; I awake to find my hand wedged between the cushion and the sofa. On the other side of the room, the characters on the TV show are talking about a big sandwich. I press a button on the remote and go back to sleep.